The faint sunlight filtered through the cracks of the wooden window, painting thin golden lines across the floor. I blinked slowly, still dizzy from the little sleep I got last night. Another morning in 1945—just another "normal day," or what passed for one now. I sat up, rubbing my temples, trying to chase away the heaviness that clung to me. My hands fumbled with the coarse fabric of my uniform as I began dressing up for training.
Everything was supposed to be fine. That's what I told myself. But deep down, I knew it wasn't. The country was still at war with neighbouring countries , and every day was a silent struggle just to survive. Food was scarce, water even scarcer, and the silence of loneliness pressed against my ears like a weight.
My parents were taken—forced into the war. I didn't even get to say goodbye properly. And me? I was sent to one of those "national schools." But it was no school; it was a camp dressed up as one. They made us collect scraps—fragments of crashed planes, bomb shells, bits of metal scattered across the ruins. They said it was for "training." For the "nation." But I didn't understand. I still don't.
Today was supposed to be special—my last day in the national school. Graduation, they called it. Though that word had lost its meaning a long time ago. When I stepped out of the camp's barracks, the sky was still pale with dawn. The air was cold, sharp enough to sting my lungs. I had woken early—just as I'd been trained to. Habit. Discipline. Obedience.
Hours slipped by until the ceremony began. One by one, they called out names. Then came mine. "Hays, batch 1938." The sound of it echoed, hollow and distant. I climbed the wooden steps to the stage, the boards creaking under my boots.
Before me sat rows of faces—tired, broken, frightened. Some were missing limbs; others wore eyes that had forgotten how to hope. We were soldiers before we were ever children. And we all knew what came next. After graduation, a few would be chosen for "experimentation" to create super-soldiers. The rest—most of us—would never leave this place alive. Ninety-nine percent, they said. I wondered which number I was destined to be.
I forced a smile—thin, almost mechanical. A smile for them, for myself, for the ghosts we had already become. Then I stepped down from the stage and sat quietly among the others, hands trembling slightly against the cold metal of the chair. I've never claimed to be a good man. I've hunted, killed, skinned—many animals, too many to count. But at least I never spilled human blood. That tiny fraction of humanity... that was all I had left to hold onto.
My gaze drifted to the stage. The officer stood there, reading from a paper with no emotion in his voice, like he was listing items instead of lives. My heart pounded so hard it echoed in my skull. Then, the silence broke—my name.
"Hays."
For a moment, the world froze. My stomach clenched, every thought dissolving into static. They'd said my name. **My** name. I was going to become one of them—an experiment, a test subject, another nameless ghost in the search for "super soldiers."
No. No. No. NO. The words screamed inside my head like alarms. I have to run, I thought. I have to—before they take me apart piece by piece.
But my body wouldn't move. Feet locked to the ground, muscles frozen under fear's cold grip. Around me, everything blurred—the stage, the people, the sound of the officer's voice. Only one truth cut through the haze: my name had been chosen. And there would be no escape from what came next.
Sometimes I wonder—why can't I just live peacefully in this lawless world? From the moment I was born, suffering followed me like a shadow. My parents were taken away, my sister... violated by the same soldiers who were meant to protect us. I've carried that pain so long it became part of me. Do I love this country? No. Not anymore. But what could I do? One man can't fight the world. Defying the masses is like standing against a storm—you're torn apart before you even begin.
The day before the experiment, they gave me food and water—real food, not the scraps we usually got. It tasted like something sacred, something from a better time. I tried to memorize every flavor, every breath of that short-lived peace.
Then General Arthur came to see me. I stood up as he entered, his boots echoing against the cold concrete floor. "Mr. General Arthur," I said quietly.
He raised a hand. "Sit, sit. You've gone through enough already. Rest, Hays."
I nodded and sat down, studying his weary eyes. For a moment, I almost thought I saw guilt there. Then he sighed. "I don't want to say this," he murmured, "but I can't guarantee your success."
The next morning came too soon. They laid me on a stretcher-like table, the metal cold against my back. Straps tightened around my arms and legs until I couldn't move. I watched, frozen in dread, as a needle slid into my spine. The world dulled; my limbs grew heavy—paralyzed.
They began cutting into my skull—I could feel pressure, not pain, but enough to know what was happening. My vision blurred, edges fading to white. Somewhere, I heard a voice—distant, terrified. "Doctor… I think he's—he's dead, General Arthur!"
General Arthur's tone was calm, almost indifferent. "Proceed with the next step, Doctor."
And then, everything went silent.